


Not to Fly

by ClaraxBarton



Series: Kinktober2019 [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AmeriHawk, Dom/sub, M/M, Masochism, Sadism, dom!Clint, is poking bruises self-harm?, ish, sub!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-25 14:44:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20913836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: Steve has a problem and he thinks Clint can help with it.





	Not to Fly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luvsanime02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvsanime02/gifts).

> Now beta read by the amazing Ro!!!!

Bucky had even said it once, the night before he shipped out, when he’d found Steve bleeding and struggling to stand and fight back against the latest creep he’d taken on.

_ Sometimes I think you like getting hit _ .

If only Bucky had known.

Then again, maybe he did. Maybe he had.

At the very least, Bucky had accepted that it was what Steve did - picked fights and got himself punched and kicked and bruised and scraped.

Sure, Steve  _ did it _ because he hated seeing assholes walk all over everyone else, because he wanted to stand up for what was right, because no matter how fragile his body was - Steve Rogers wasn’t weak and he wasn’t going to tolerate bullies.

But the electric current of pain? The thunderous roar of his blood pulsing through his body and the hazy, floaty feeling of not being able to breathe deep enough?

Those weren’t exactly downsides, for Steve. Not even a little.

And he knew… he  _ knew _ that that made him fucked-up. Had known, all along, ever since the first time he met Bucky and Bucky had tried to intervene on his behalf, had tried to talk everyone out of fighting, and done his level best to avoid the hits thrown his way. 

Bucky didn’t want to get hurt, didn’t go out of his way to pick fights. But he wasn’t a coward, and he stood up when he needed to and he always had Steve’s back, and too often his front. 

And Bucky was always there to patch him up, to clean him up and settle him down and offer the comfort that Steve almost always tried to flinch away from before giving in. Because that was part of it, he realized, too late.

The adrenaline, the rush, the  _ crush _ of pain was one thing. But following it up with softness and warmth?

It was unbearably good.

Still, it wasn’t until later, until  _ after _ , until Erskine had taken Steve apart and put him back together again, and Steve’s body was new and unbreakable, that he was able to  _ get off _ on the pain.

Before, hell - before, he’d barely managed to get off at all - his arthritis and his bum heart and his crappy lungs and his twisted spine had made it all so much effort, and sometimes made it impossible, even.

But  _ after _ ?

Hell,  _ after, _ it sometimes felt like a stiff breeze was enough to get Steve going. Adding in some pain to it? Pinching his own thighs, slapping his own ass, poking at healing bruises and cuts before they faded?

It was incredible - pain and pleasure curling together and stealing away his breath in a way that had never been possible before, and leaving him gasping and  _ empty _ in all the best ways possible.

Steve thought he’d done a damn good job of keeping it to himself, all things considered.

It wasn’t like he went around jerking off in front of anyone else, wasn’t like anyone ever saw him inspecting his own wounds and thought he was hissing from pleasure instead of pain.

But the trouble with being on a team of superheroes that included not one but  _ two _ spies was that Steve wasn’t nearly as covert as he thought he was or should have been.

Natasha gave him knowing looks, every time she caught him shoving blunt fingers into his own bruises, prodding his too-rapidly healing body into flaring up with sensation before it left him altogether.

She looked, but she didn’t say anything. And Steve hadn’t had to know her for very long to know that if Natasha wanted to share what was on her mind or in her heart, she would. 

So she was letting him be. Letting it go.

And that was a relief for Steve.

Clint, on the other hand, was a problem.

Because Clint? Clint almost never said what was on his mind, and  _ Clint _ didn’t just watch.

Clint  _ acted _ .

Clint showed off. 

He usually fought from a distance, usually avoided involving himself in any kind of melee situation unless he had to, but when he did… When he did, the man moved like a predator. Dangerous, coiled muscles that stretched with grace and effortless agility, and so much power for someone so very, very human.

Whenever he knew Steve was watching him, whenever he had his hands on an unfortunate enemy, he would lay into him that much harder, would grin and punch and kick and  _ cut _ until Steve was breathless and Clint was breathless, and the enemy wasn’t even a threat. 

And then Clint would look at Steve, and Steve could  _ see _ it. Could see how much pleasure Clint took in breaking bone and flesh, and it made Steve shiver and shake and want to run away and kneel before him and- 

And the thing was, this only ever seemed to happen when Steve really should put his full attention on fighting off bad guys, and it was usually Natasha who had to remind him - had to remind Clint too - and by the time Steve had a moment to  _ do _ anything about any of it, it had passed. 

It never felt right, approaching Clint back at the Tower, and in any case, Steve didn’t even know what to say or do - how to put into words all of the terrible need he had.

So he never said anything, never did anything, except to hoard those battlefield moments in his mind and his gut and pull them free late at night, alone, and wish he could feel Clint’s brutal touch on him.

Everything changed, though, since everything always changed. Inevitable and inescapable.

There was a mission, a mission that had Clint in the field, undercover, for seven weeks, and that ended when a federal agency fucked up and killed the wrong people, killed innocent people, and Clint came back to the Tower silent and sullen and furious and refused to speak with anyone, even Natasha.

Steve found him at the shooting range, Manhattan’s skyline glittering brilliantly against the inky sky through the windows that ran the length of one side of the range, floor to ceiling, giving the impression that maybe they were outside, or that maybe none of this was real at all.

Clint was shooting arrow after arrow from his bow, precise and furious, every line in his body tensed.

He had to know Steve was there, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t change anything, until he had paced the entire width of the range, had delivered perfectly tight clusters of arrows to each target in the four available lanes.

It was only then that he turned to Steve, glaring at him from across the room before advancing in long, angry strides that had him backing Steve up against the wall in mere seconds.

Steve forgot, most of the time, that Clint was actually taller than him. He wasn’t as broad as Steve, certainly wasn’t as powerful, but he was large and intimidating and deadly in a way that made Steve’s breath catch.

“This is a bad idea,” Clint said, voice harsh and blue eyes nearly swallowed by the darkness of his dilated pupils. 

Steve swallowed hard, considered the value in playing dumb, but immediately dismissed it. This thing between them, this  _ hunger _ , was obvious, and besides, denying it would get Steve nowhere.

“I’m full of bad ideas,” Steve quipped.

Clint snorted a laugh, but he didn’t break eye contact with Steve.

“Hurt me,” Steve begged when Clint seemed frozen.

The other man sucked in an unsteady breath, closed his eyes and shook his head.

“You need it,” Steve argued. “I need it.”

“Steve-”

“I’ll heal, Clint. You can hurt me as much as I need, and I’ll still be here for you.”

Clint’s eyes opened again, and his lips twisted into something between a smile and a grimace.

“That easy, huh?”

“I hope not.”

Another laugh, rich enough that Steve smiled back, felt it warm him from the inside out.

Clint shoved his right forearm against Steve’s throat, moving so fast that Steve barely had a chance to get his hands up to grip Clint’s arm.

“You ever need me to stop, what will you say?” Clint demanded, pressing forward, not hard enough to cut into Steve’s airflow but so, so close to doing it.

The tease had Steve licking his lips and rocking forward.

Clint slapped him, open-handed and hard, leaving Steve’s ears ringing and his cheek burning.

“I asked a question, Steve. Answer it, or I’m walking away from this.”

Steve made himself think, made himself  _ focus _ instead of letting his mind float away on the stinging heat in his face.

“Jersey,” Steve said, and Clint grinned again, a sharp curve to his full lips that took Steve’s breath away just as surely as the forearm to his throat could.

“Good,” Clint said, and he smoothed a hand over Steve’s cheek, over the lingering warmth of his slap. Steve leaned into it, and Clint arched an eyebrow.

“Oh, it’s like that, huh? You want me to fuck you up all hard and brutal, and then give it to you soft and slow?”

Put like that…

Fuck, yes, did Steve want it.

“Please,” he managed to gasp.

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s gonna be my absolute pleasure,” Clint assured him.

-o-

  
  



End file.
